Bosnia - September 2016

"There is only one team in Mostar," snapped the previously jovial shop owner when I innocently asked whether or not he also stocked the shirt of the current champions of Bosnia, Zrinjski Mostar. 

I had tried on the strip of former Yugoslav cup winners Velez Mostar who haven't fared at all well since the disintegration of Yugoslavia. Evicted from their stadium which was then given to Zrinjski and now languishing at the foot of the second tier of the Bosnian footballing pyramid. 

While the shop owner's could be interpreted as a fierce kind of loyalty to his team, it also goes to show the divisions that still exist in Bosnian society more than two decades since the end of the most fierce war seen in Europe since the Second World War and one which claimed near to 100,000 lives and displaced millions of others. 

Zrinjski are the team of Bosnia's Croat population while Velez represent the country's majority Bosniak (Muslim) population. 

When they meet there are fireworks in the stands, literally, and overt displays of nationalistic pride and passion as well as the frenetic waving of Turkish and Croats flags. 

Following the break-up of Yugoslavia, Bosnia's Serb population tried to secure territory for its motherland, a move which was met with resistance by the Bosniaks and Croats who then fell out themselves resulting in a bloody war remembered for ethnic cleansing, mass rape and starvation. 

The war lasted three years and only drew to a close thanks to UN intervention and today, all three populations live alongside and tolerate each other but don't often agree on the best political course of action. 

There are three separate heads of state, one for each slice of the population, and decisions are often made on their behalf from outside the country. It is hoped that EU membership will bring a form of simplicity and stability to Bosnia's governmental hierarchy. 

We arrived in Mostar on a sweltering day (as it so often is we were told), after stopping off at the quaint Turkish town of Pocitelj, a small settlement located on a steep hill and dominated by a large Mosque that looks out over the river and settlement below. 

Bosnia remains the only country this side of Turkey with a Muslim majority after Ottomans settled the area in the 1460s and is among the poorest in Europe.

Today the majority of Mostar's Croat population still lives on the Western side of the city and the Muslim population in the East with Orthodox Serbs sprinkled in on both sides. 

The city, Bosnia's second biggest after the capital Sarajevo is connected by seven bridges including the iconic and grandiose Stari Most bridge, which was completely destroyed and then rebuilt during and following the conflict. 

The city's compact and cobbled old town, some of its buildings riddled with bullet holes, is a hive of activity with shops and stalls selling everything from Turkish tea pots to fridge magnets. 

Restaurants and cafes take advantage of every available viewpoint of the surrounding valley and the winding Neretva River. 

Mostar, named after the guards who kept look out on the bridge, is determined not to forget what happened just over 20 years ago and offers a plethora of museums and photographic exhibitions documenting the atrocities. 

The city was the scene of fierce fighting to control its metal industry with 80% of buildings reduced to rubble during the war. 

Residents have vowed never again and although they may not always agree with their city neighbours, they live alongside each other and peacefully go about their day to day lives. 

The city is beautiful and its people welcoming and hospitable on all sides of the divide, even if visible scars do still exist as a reminder of the conflict on every street corner. 

The buzz is palpable as you make your way around the city. Bosnia was my 29th country and the most fascinating by far and yes, I bought the Velez Mostar shirt and put a smile back on the shop owner's face. 

France and Belgium - June 2016

RATED a respectful 8/10 by the highly critical Internet Movie Database website, the 2008 film In Bruges tells the story of two bumbling hit men sent to the charming Belgium city to lay low after a failed hit which inadvertently saw a young child killed.

The hitmen, expertly played by Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, are polar opposites with Gleeson’s character more interested in soaking up the picturesque sites of the medieval city, whereas the irritable and somewhat younger Farrell wants to get out and sample some of the myriad of pubs and bars which line Bruges’ streets and cellars.

What follows is a catastrophic yet comedic chain of events involving a tactical suicide from the city’s iconic bell tower, a gun chase through the streets and canals of the city and an angry, cocaine sniffing dwarf.

Whilst this narrative may have proven difficult to top, my group of friends and I gave it a good go and produced a considerable series of mishaps ourselves.

Before we set off the plan had been to pick up our hired minibus, cross the channel and head to a campsite in the north of France, before making our way into either Lille or Lens to take in the Euro 2016 battle of Britain between England and Wales.

We had been vociferously warned to watch out for Russian hooligans and French ultras who attacked English fans in Marseille days before leading to running battles in the streets of the multi-cultural melting pot port.

Unfortunately violent supporter groups from the continent still see English ‘hooligans’ as a considerable force to measure up to given the trail of destruction they left around Europe in the 70s and 80s, and often target English fans as a way of proving themselves among the trouble making elite.

Although the vast majority of known English trouble makers have had their passports confiscated and no longer travel, English fans came under fire from rival groups and predictably fought back. I am in no way saying that the battles of Marseille were not at all the fault of the English, I just believe that if you kick a dog so many times it will eventually bite back and the English supporters, as rowdy and boisterous as they can be, didn’t go to France specifically looking for trouble as is the case with some of the Russians involved in the trouble who arrived equipped with well-organised fight tactics and MMA training.

Also the violence that took place in the Stade Velodrome highlighted the negligence of the French authorities who failed to prevent Russian supporters from rushing over women and children in the neutral section and attacking English supporters.

Anyway, I digress.

As we disembarked the ferry and made our way to our first campsite, we gawped at the sight of the rolling hills, beautifully constructed properties and quaint towns of the Northern France countryside. After arriving at our campsite located in the shadow of a country house, we enjoyed a drink in the sun and a few games of table tennis with other supporters, both English and Welsh.

The next day we boarded a train and headed to the student city of Lille recommended for ticketless fans due to the fact it has more bars and a bigger fanzone.

As soon as we exited the station we were greeted by hoards of English fans gathering outside bars and indulged in some good-natured ritual chanting and japes to pass the late morning hours.

The game itself was tight with England recording a late win thanks to a Daniel Sturridge goal, and we left Lille having enjoyed plenty of friendly banter and no trouble at all, although I do understand some flashpoints did develop later in the evening.

Ever since watching In Bruges I’ve always wanted to visit the city and we rolled into town feeling fresh with a sense of anticipation of what was in store.

As often portrayed, the city that is home to 118,000 people is full of cobbled streets, horse and carriages, canals, beautiful buildings and chocolate shops. Another Venice of the North.

The view from the bell tower was also well worth the 10 Euro admissing fee and gruelling 1,000 odd steps we had to climb to take in the panoramic eyeshot it offered of the UNESCO World Heritage Site.

It’s fair to say the European Championship atmosphere had spilled over the border and we enjoyed partying with Dutch and Belgium football fans, singing songs and dancing into the early hours at some of the busier, bustling pubs and bars.

So far, so good, but when in the early hours two of us split from the group and began to make our own way back to the campsite, things took a turn for the worse.

We ended up being enticed into what we now know is a building frequented by squatters and artists. We were invited in as we passed and after grabbing a drink from a living room bar open for a monthly party, we were shown into the dark, graffiti ridden tunnels which the squatters call home.

Foolishly we managed to lose our guides and spent half an hour desperately trying to find our way out of the darkened tunnels and court yards, overlooked by a crumbling chapel. A petrifying experience.

Waking up the next morning it became clear that it was not only our sense of direction we had lost, but also our bag containing the minibus keys so we sat at our camp, looking at a minibus we couldn’t enter or start plotting how we were going to escape the predicament we had found ourselves in.

Like something out of The Hangover, the gruelling eight hour trek across the city, retracing our steps from the night before, was as enjoyable as it was successful.

We visited two pubs, a late night bar, a kebab shop, a police station and rang every taxi company in the city, all to no avail.

Despondently we were forced to get the minibus towed into a compound and find our way home via taxis and public transport, albeit at an extra cost of only £50 or so.

One member of the group has since picked up the spare keys and returned to collect the wagon, however some casual internet research today has revealed the name of the building where the squatters’ party took place as Donkey Squat.

Frustratingly Donkey Squat was one of the places we returned in search of the bag the next night after receiving directions from people who were clearly enjoying some form of outer body, hallucinogenic experience. However we found nobody home other than an angry Irishman who told us in no uncertain terms that our lost items weren’t there and we were to leave immediately or risk his wrath. It seems the parties only take place once or twice each month.

A couple of emails to the party organisers later and the bag and keys are being posted home. The trip may not have involved suicides, dwarves, drugs or guns, but we certainly enjoyed our fair share of beer, disasters and new friends.

Another country off the list and more tales to pass down to future generations.

Wembley, 2016.

Not many words on this, but as is often the case with supporting Plymouth Argyle, Monday's trip to Wembley was a fantastic day out once again ruined by the football. 

Pyrotechnics, camaraderie, beer and incessant chanting, it was all going so well until 3 o'clock. 

There's always next year.

Mexico, 2016.

SECRETLY I always turned my nose up at people who elect to go on all-inclusive package holidays, likening them to somewhat of a vacation straightjacket where travellers are tied to the hotel they have often paid through to nose to stay at.

So naturally, it’s fair to say that my maiden voyage to Mexico wasn’t as first planned. A travel itch had been eating away at me for some time now.  The itch was called Mexico.

I first had a chance to visit the north American country back in autumn 2013 during time spent travelling around the USA. I had pitched up at a fantastic hostel in the southern Californian city of San Diego, which offered day trips once a week to the Mexican border city of Tijuana.

I had been eagerly anticipating the trip throughout my week spent there, but at the last minute got talked out of it and instead spent an afternoon watching American football, a sport so boring I left at half time and returned to the safety of the pub.

While I was under no illusions and was fully aware that Tijuana is far from the most Mexican of experiences, after all it is a border town best known for being a key drug route into the US and popular destination for America’s underage drinkers, the fact that I passed up an opportunity to visit a new country really pissed me off (seeing the world is a passion of mine as I'm sure you're aware by now).

Fast forward two and a bit years of pure annoyance and sense of missed opportunity and I finally made it, albeit to the opposite end of the country.

As previously touched upon, rather than backpacking or going where the wind took me, I arrived in the Riviera Maya staying in an all-inclusive hotel.

When I previously thought of all-inclusive trips I associated them with being sat by a pool drinking crap beer for two weeks, rarely venturing away from the comforts of the hotel and generally being a waste of an opportunity to see a new country.

However, fast forward two weeks and I can confirm that providing you have the desire to get out and about, you can still see a good chunk of area and get back in time for your already paid for dinner.

Sadly, large swathes of Mexico are poor areas where drugs cartels feud openly in the street as they vie to control the lucrative smuggling routes. However the Mexican government is clearly aware of the beauty, history and culture associated with the Yucatan Peninsula and do their best to keep violent crime away from the area to ensure a steady flow of pesos out of tourist’s pockets and into government coffers.

The Yucatan Peninsula is known for its Caribbean Ocean beaches and Mayan ruins and from the mushrooming resort of Cancun in the north, to the yoga retreats of Tulum in the south, the area is lined with white sand and turquoise water beaches (think postcard Caribbean) and dotted with fascinating crumbling ruins hinting at the mightiest of civilisations.

Originating in the Yucatan around 2600 B.C the Mayans rose to prominence around A.D. 250 in present-day southern Mexico, Guatemala, western Honduras, El Salvador, and northern Belize and developed a highly sophisticated society.

They are known for their ancient writing system as well as art, architecture, calendar and astronomy and many an hour we spent wandering around the most famous of all the ruins, Chichen Itza, and also the cliffstop structures of Tulum, the city first encountered by Spanish colonialists as they arrived.

Mayan traditions are still prevalent despite the one-time Spanish rule and their short, stocky and extremely friendly people can be seen throughout the region, some still living as their ancestors did before the Spaniards became aware Mexico even existed.

Following on from a morning spent at Chichen Itza, we took a dip in one of the plethora of cenotes, natural pits or sinkholes, resulting from the collapse of limestone bedrock that exposes water underneath. Think underwater cave swimming in the dark, which certainly proved as if not more exhilarating than it sounds.

The cenotes have rightly become attractions in their own right and from there, watered and stuffed with the spicy but tasty traditional local cuisine; we hopped back on board the bus and headed to the city of Valladolid.

Valladolid was founded by Spanish colonialists and named after the Spanish city of the same name.

During a fleeting visit I was fortunate enough to stroll around its quaint streets, lined with picturesque coloured buildings and take some time out at its charming square which is overlooked by a church once used to try and convert Mayans to Christianity. The Spanish were shocked to learn that they originally worshipped a serpent and I was astounded to witness the incredibly slow and almost therapeutic pace of life there.

Visiting the various towns and sights you really get a feel of the area’s history from the ancient Mayan civilisations, through Spanish colonialism, leaving a contemporary hybrid and melting pot of traditions and practices.

Square miles of sprawling jungle and the world’s second longest coral reef makes the peninsula an adrenaline junky's playground and I was fortunate to get out equipped with my trusty GoPro (which I’ve finally got the hang of) and enjoy some snorkelling, abseiling, zip wiring and speedboating. Sea turtles, dolphins, iguanas and various species of fish and birds were among the wildlife that pitched up during our excursions.

By the end of the trip I felt as if I had sampled the best that the Yucatan Peninsula and Riviera Maya had to offer, however our final excursion took me to an extremely special place.

Sian Ka'an is a nature reserve located on a thin strip of land with the Caribbean Ocean lapping it on one side and the most turquoise of lagoons featuring plenty of crocodiles on the other.

The area is teeming with wildlife and is also home to a group of people whose name escapes me.

The able watermen and their families live off the sea, capturing lobster and catering for a controlled number of visitors per week and there is just one bumpy road in and out of the civilisation Punta Allen, located an hours’ drive from Tulum.

The landscape is fit to grace any postcard and the residents there are relaxed, friendly and content despite living the most basic of lives. How I envy them and long to be back there as I sit at my desk this Friday afternoon.

 St Basil's Cathedral, Moscow, Russia.

 St Basil's Cathedral and Red Square, Moscow, Russia.

 The walls of the Kremlin, Moscow, Russia.

 Lokomotiv Moscow ultras.

 St Basil's Cathedral, Moscow, Russia.

 Riga, Latvia.

Riga, Latvia.

  Riga, Latvia.

CSKA Moscow fans getting in the mood.

Riga, Latvia and Moscow, Russia - April 2016

Judge as you find is a mantra handed down to me by my open minded mother, a woman who can't help but see the good in the majority of the people she meets.

When I announced my intention to travel East to behind what was formerly the Iron Curtain and into Russia I was greeted with choruses of "are you mad", "you'll get killed" and "what do you want to do that for".

Barely a week at home goes by without news beamed across the BBC network of Russian leader Vladimir Putin either flexing his political muscles distancing himself further from the west in what is increasingly becoming a throwback to the Cold War era, a probe into a poisoned spy, or brutal military intervention in Syria.

I must confess that I did have some reservations (although not enough to put me off coming) and thought that we would have to watch our step a little, but in truth what I've discovered during my own personal time spent in Moscow is that the people living in the city are friendly, warm, welcoming, helpful and speak surprisingly good English, contrary to my one word Russian vocabulary of spaseeba.

We warmed up with a day and night in the charming Latvian city of Riga, a quaint cobbled city typical of so many other smaller Easter European outposts.

Again, the locals were a friendly bunch and couldn't do enough for us. Riga itself is relatively small in size (a population of well under a million and is easy to navigate on foot) its picturesque old town packed with bars, restaurants, stunning architecture, grand church spires and bustling market stalls.

However as nice as Riga was, it was far from the main event. After touching down in Moscow we hopped in a cab and headed past nondescript Soviet high rise blocks and into what quickly became a smart, clean and awe-inspiring city.

We wasted no time in hitting the town for a Friday night in a place which is as famous for its nightlife as it is its historic landmarks marking poignant moments in Russian history and boy, did it not disappoint.

Our destination of choice for an unexpected two night stay was a nightclub named Gipsy.

Gipsy, as is the case with many Russian clubs, exercises a strict face control policy whereby only people deemed good looking or rich enough are allowed to enter.

Fortunately for us, our English accent was detected in the sizeable queue which had already seen people turned away who would probably considered in the more attractive proportion of the population back in the UK. 

After a quick pat down we were allowed to enter what turned out to be an absolute assault on the senses. Two large rooms made up the vast majority of the complex which was packed with Russia's glamorous, wealthy and powerful clad in some of the swankiest get up I've ever seen.

Face control ensured the club was never over crowded as the DJs spun their tunes until the time that my alarm would usually sound for work. A combination of adrenaline, vodka and red bull and knowing the fact that we'd blagged our way into a club that never in our wildest dreams would we be able to enter back home, ensured we were among the last to leave two nights in succession.

A walk around Gipsy sees an impressive plethora of services including a tapas bar, restaurant, ball pool and even a kebab shop to combat late night/ early morning cravings.

The two indescribable vodka-fuelled nights proved to not be enough to spoil our days however and we also wolfed down some tasty culinary treats provided by the  courteous, polite and attentive waiting staff, to help power us through our sightseeing itinerary. 

Moscow itself is so clean that it almost glistened in the April warmth which ensured chills the icy that we'd been told to expect would never trouble us during our stay.

The sights need little introduction or description but must be seen to be believed. The Kremlin, St Basil's Cathedral and Red Square are all rightly marvelled at by all those who stop by to snap iconic pics immediately uploaded to social media (guilty).

The buildings provide a reminder as to the world superpower that Russia has proved to be throughout history. Nearby hawkers pedal fluffy hats, as well as t-shirts and fridge magnets depicting comical images such as Putin riding a bear holding a shotgun, a gentle reminder of the god-like worship and cult of personality that surrounds the leader.

Being lucky enough to take in a top flight football match and potential title decider between CSKA and Lokomotiv Moscow was an experience that I will never forget and one that trumped matches I've seen across England and Spain.

The game itself was an end to end 1-1 draw which featured no shortage of goal mouth action and drama.

However, despite the entertainment on the field played out by 22 gladiators from around the world, it was the fans off it and particular the ultras that stole the show.

A non-stop 90 minute barrage of ear shredding noise from both sets of fans included flares, fireworks and curiously mosh pits, with no sign of any hooliganism, perhaps to do with the fact half the Russian army looked to have been deployed to maintain order.

Comparing Moscow to other parts of the geographically largest country in the world would be unfair and unrealistic as poverty and famine still hold a vice like grip in some of the more isolated rural areas, whilst Moscovites live lives of flash cars and Louis Vutton bags.  However, even as Ferraris zip around the wide boulevards, the recent crash of the rouble still means that drinks are cheap and a slap-up meal totals around £10 a head.

Speaking from my own experience I can say that Moscow was undoubtedly worth the considerable hassle of organising a visa and my only regret is not being able to travel further and deeper into a fascinating country which has now captured not only my imagination but also my heart. 

Porto, October 2015

Elegantly straddling the meandering estuary of the River Douro, picture perfect Porto deserves to be known as more than just a haven for wine connoisseurs.

While Portugal’s second city is globally famous for the packing, transporting and exporting of port wine, the city also offers stunning views and locals have a refreshingly slow pace of life.

Despite having to get up in the dead of night (1:15am to be exact) to begin our journey from deepest darkest Cornwall, it’s easy to see why Porto is becoming one of Europe’s trendiest weekend getaways.

Less than a two hour flight from Bristol Airport and we were greeted by blue skies and balmy October temperatures. Porto Airport is connected to the city via the efficient and extensive Metro system, meaning that you are in the thick of it within an hour and all for less than three euros.

Defying our distinct lack of sleep, we checked in at the centrally located Hotel Aliados which stands aside the vast avenue of the same name, chucked in our bags and immediately set about seeing what the city had to offer.

As always, we purchased a ticket from one of the city’s three open top bus tours and were ferried around for the afternoon, quickly getting our bearings and establishing points of interest to which we wished to return.

Port caves and factories aside, Porto’s showpiece is undoubtedly the spectacular views from the numerous giant bridges connecting both sides of the River Douro.

The river is lined on the one side with industry related to port production and on the other, unstable but quaint looking terracotta roofs that stack up and back up towards the city centre and its designer shops.

It’s well worth an afternoon wondering the banks of the Douro and the Ribeira district taking in the charming architecture and sampling some of cuisine at the many family-run restaurants.

In fact, the city is a fantastic place to keep active, offering long walks to sandy beaches and plenty of parks, botanical gardens and panoramic viewing spots to marvel at its splendour.

Porto also has a trendy bar scene, but one that rarely gets going until late, by which time we were often in bed due to our hectic daytime sightseeing schedule.

Although I wasn’t taken by the signature dish the franceschina (meats and bread with melted cheese spoilt by a strange beer sauce), we did manage to locate a small and cheap kitchen serving up the finest chicken and chips that have ever graced my pallet, a dish that trumped the global dining phenomenon Nando’s.

Also worth a mention is the Café Majestic, the spot JK Rowling penned her Harry Potter novels whilst living in the city, a hive of activity that offers splendid interior design and tasty milkshakes.

On the outskirts of the city is the relatively new sporting arena the Estadio Dragao, the home of Portuguese football powerhouse FC Porto built for Euro 2004.

Although neither FC Porto nor the city’s other team Boavista were at home, we managed to look around both stadiums and were taken aback by the grandeur of the Dragao and its magnificent museum which proudly shows off a glittering history complete with hatful’s of league titles and two Champions League winners trophies.

So within a short, inexpensive Easyjet guided hop and easily explorable by foot in just a few days, I’d be surprised if more people don’t start lining the banks of the River Douro to marvel at Porto’s breathtaking natural beauty and soak in its port-fuelled charm.